Would you if
Could you with
A gift of any wish
Granted / Change
Beauty
Or what they deem to be
The ugly in humanity
Simply (for one's own comfort)
To see and to shape
Satisfactorily
It's property

Metamorphose

So suppose you could impose
Your willing whim on man
Or make refined
These grains of sand / to cry
Change sweet sugars
To sour lime
And with this power on a dime
Create your heart
To love / to shine
And shape the world
With peaceful times!?

Still, rain will fall and war:
Often loudly screams to be
Consistently and capitalistically
Disagreeing discord
Ever more......

But if you could
And if you should
With every beef and steer
Against the odds angst and deep
Defeatists' endearing fear
Educate the darkness
How it can be lifted by
A single spark,
Would you

If could you

Should have

With a gift
Of a single wish:
Recognize Our Heart
A good place to Always

Start...


*(Stay true for you are Art)

being a poet
you don't have to live with anyone
you don't have  to hide
the frozen snickers behind the **** roast
or close the bathroom door
use whatever toothbrush is there
the first you grab
you can scratch whatever itches
anytime without looking back first
make a fool out of yourself
flirting to all those pretty things on the internet
and not have to clear your browsing history
before you pass out
but you can
view the world
at your pace
your leisure
wake up to only
your own ridicule
regretfully

on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.

.
I nfinite
S tars
I nfinite
S pace

Her lithe and arched body
protecting her child. Earth.
Holding hands with her sister,
the twin Goddesses of Truth.
Her name stolen by the liars,
Her glory tarnished with the blood
of the innocent and brave.
So, who's voice will be Her hero?
Her modern lover. Champion.
Her contemporary pharaoh?

© Pagan Paul (13/06/16)

Today a review with the Doctor took place
She looked on unknowingly smiling face
She now needs twenty four hour care
For her to stay at home would not be fair
He suggested I look at some care homes
Soon it will be an empty house, all alone
It’s out of my control and nothing I can do
But remind Mum “I will always love you”
I want her at home, no other place to be
Now all I can do is write my feelings in poetry

22/12/2016 © David Swinden

Solemn silence singing
joyful dirge in parade
for bemused muse.

form forms a bubble around the most profound things
tension keeps most out and that keeps the surfactant surface round
like a dogwood blooming or a twig dripping
dewdrops in the morning
or an insane writer performing acrobatic bounces
on the surface of the paper trampoline
trying to figure out
Rorscach ink blots forming images
on his memory
bouncing round in similes
metaphors trying his patience to the limits
finding balance on the paper thin
edges
the finite experiences
his imagination pushing him
to every limit